


Malden Center Station Blues

by ialpiriel



Series: Do You Remember (Sole Survivor Mal) [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/F, Hickies, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, my kinda weird but very mild fetish for thighs (lol)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>after a mission gone well, glory and f!ss won’t wait to get it on until they get back to civilization. luckily some raider left a mattress close by</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malden Center Station Blues

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on the [fallout kinkmeme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=16452051#t16452051)

Glory shoves her back and down, hard enough she half-stumbles and lands on the mattress ass-first. The springs shriek, something inside crackles like a plastic bag, her boots skid on the dusty tiles, Glory’s knees hit the mattress a moment later--or, one of them does, the other cracking hard against the floor with a yelp and a _fuck_ from Glory, and a laugh from Fixer.

“You missed,” FIxer says, low and soft, rumbling out of her chest as she curls her hands around Glory's biceps, presses her open mouth--teeth, more than lips-- against the angle of Glory's’ jaw.

“Shut up,” glory growls, pushes Fixer back. “God, you walked into HQ in that big fucking tin can and I thought you were going to try to kill us all.”

“I didn’t spend four hours running through Boston and half an hour staring at that fucking plate trying to figure what the hell those numbers and letters meant so I could whale on you all with a baseball bat.” Fixer lets herself be pinned, one of Glory’s hands leaning heavy on her shoulder, the other pinning her wrist next to her shoulder; her head hangs off the edge of the mattress. That's what you get, doing this in an old subway station on some grody mattress a hopped-up raider dragged in. “The tin can might help, but I'm not sure I can stand up to a minigun for any length of time, even inside it.”

“Wanted you out of it as soon as I heard your voice, knew you were with us.” The ‘tin can’ in question stands at the bottom of the stairs, fusion core making a low hum audible even this far away. It looks enough like a person it still catches Glory’s eye, sends a thrill of fear up her spine before it parses back into an empty set of power armor. “Wanted to see all of you, take you apart.” She picks her hand up, releases Fixer’s wrist. She yanks the first three buttons of Fixer’s flannel shirt open, before Fixer gets the last one herself.

“I worked hard to find those buttons,” Fixer admonishes. “You’re not gonna make me lose any of them.”

“Fuck your buttons,” Glory replies, tugs Fixer’s shirt down off her shoulders. Fixer makes to sit up, gets the shirt down off her neck, then flops back down, hits hard on her shoulders, arches her back, wiggles the shirt the rest of the way off. She slings it sloppily over the wooden half-wall enclosing their corner.

“You too,” Fixer orders.

“Shit, you think I’m taking off my armor?” Glory laughs. Swings her leg over Fixer’s left thigh, then the other leg over Fixer’s right thigh, straddles her hips. Her legs aren’t long enough to do it very comfortably, but it’s the intent that counts. “You've got another thing coming.”

“They're all dead, Glory, there’s no need for--” Glory bites, then, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to startle Fixer into silence. Leaves her teeth on Fixer’s collarbone for a moment, lets Fixer breathe once, twice, lets herself breathe once. Fixer breathes deep, lets their chests bump together. “You gonna do anything else?” she asks. “I’m getting awfully bored here, waiting for you to--”

“Shut up.” Glory laughs, sits up; Fixer pulls a face.

“Why?” she asks. “Thought you liked me mouthy, Miss Minigun.”

“I _do_ like you mouthy,” Glory replies, leans back so she can drag Fixer’s shirt up, press her fingertips against the spattering of freckles between her waistband and the bottom of her ribcage. She tips her fingers up, as she walks her hands up FIxer’s stomach, so her fingernails dig in the tiniest bit. “But I don’t like you mouthing off.”

“I see the distinction, there,” Fixer chuckles, tugs her undershirt up over her head. She half-asses a throw so it lands on top of her overshirt.

“Oh my god,” Glory laughs, tweaks one of Fixer’s nipples. Fixer squirms, and glares, but doesn’t dump Glory off onto the mattress. “Were you planning this?”

“Is it better or worse if I tell you I don’t wear one when I’m in power armor?”

“Really?”

“Really.” Fixer rests her hands on glory’s thighs, lets one slide up to her hip after a moment. “Haven’t found a place that sells them yet, so I figure I should keep it as long as possible.”

Glory leans forward on one hand, tweaks Fixer’s nipple again.

“I could hook you up with someone. Dez knows a woman.”

“Dez supply you with bras?” Fixer asks, slips her hand under the leather of Glory’s coat and the worn cotton of her undershirt. Squeezes Glory’s thigh with the other hand.

“Some tourist seamstress, knows good business when she sees it. Hammerhead goes out and buys jackets off her sometimes.” Glory swings her leg of Fixer, kneels next to her instead. “Take your pants off.”

“My bare ass is not going on this fucking mattress.” Fixer cocks one leg up, flattens her foot in the grime. Lets the other heel slide some.

“So you'll lay shirtless on the drug mattress,” Glory points to where the Psycho syringe was sitting earlier, before Fixer picked it up and stashed it in her bag, “But you won’t take off your pants.”

“Shit, no, I told you, my bare ass does not touch this mattress.”

“Wimp,” Glory laughs, unbuttons Fixer’s jeans and pulls down the zipper. “No panties either, jesus. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“Not any more than jeans are in the first place. It’s not like they’re riding up my crotch anyway.” One of Fixer’s hands drifts to Glory’s wrist. “If you wanna go at it like this, that’d be--alright.”

“Shit, no, you're getting out of those pants.” Glory leans back and snags Fixer’s undershirt off the partition. “I’m gonna cover you in hickeys, make sure everyone knows you belong to someone. Put your butt up.”

Fixer eyes Glory as she settles her feet, arches her back so her ass is off the mattress. Glory flops the shirt out underneath her, tugs the waistband of her pants down to mid-thigh.

“Why do I need to be out of my pants for that?” Fixer asks. She helps Glory straighten out the shirt before settling down on it. “And you should at least be out of your armor.”

Glory pulls Fixer’s jeans down the rest of the way, though they catch on her boots, so she leaves them tangles at Fixer’s ankles. She kneels between Fixer’s knees, just past the bottom hem of Fixer’s shirt, presses her hands into the soft tops of FIxer’s thighs, leans her weight in.

“Because you have beautiful thighs and I wanna watch you try to walk with them covered in hickeys.” She parts Fixer’s curls with her fingers, slides her thumb through her folds, slit to clit. Fixer bites her lip, but doesn’t move or make a sound. Her hands curl into fists, and she sets herself up on her elbows.

Glory drags her thumb down, then up again. She shoves her sleeve up as far as she can with her free hand, leans forward and plants her hand on some especially crinkley spot on the mattress when she can’t roll her sleeve up any more. both Glory and Fixer flinch at the sound. Fixer moves her hand from Glory’s wrist, up to Glory’s neck, then moves her other hand up to join it, tugs glory down so she’s near-horizontal.

“Still think you should be out of your armor,” She murmurs against Glory’s ear. “Can’t mark you up if I can't even touch skin.”

“Who said you got to mark _me_ up?” Glory asks. She ups her rhythm, presses harder so FIxer squirms and bends one knee, tips her thigh into Glory’s hip. Glory leans out, presses Fixer’s leg back down, spreads her legs wide. She pulls her head back a bit, before she leans down again, diagonal across Fixer to hold her leg down but still put her weight on her free arm. “This is about marking you.”

“Fuck,” Fixer whines. She bucks her hips up against Glory, succeeds at absolutely nothing in the process.

Glory ducks out of Fixer’s hands, scoots back on her knees--the rubber soles of her boots slide easy on the grime, but the knees of her pants catch and she leaves half-clean trails in the dust--until she has to hook her feet over Fixer’s jeans.

“You shoulda been naked for this, “ she grunts.

“I’m not putting my bare feet in whatever that is,” Fixer complains. She has her hands on her breasts, playing with her nipples.

“It’s gonna be all over your pants and the backs of your legs, already,” Glory points out, tries to arrange herself between Fixer’s legs so she can get at everything she wants easily. The plates of her coat dig into her chest and stomach, and she takes her hand off Fixer long enough to adjust.

“I know,” Fixer whines. “You owe me a shower after this.”

“You can use the eyewash station back at HQ, I’m sure Tom won’t mind another puddle in his workshop.”

“A real shower,” Fixer clarifies. “With hot water and soap.”

“Sorry, Vaultie, all HQ has is an eyewash station.” She tries to flop down on her stomach, see if that’s more comfortable. It’s not, and she gives up on the armor staying on. She sits up, takes the scarf off first, and tosses it over the partition as Fixer watches, smug grin on her face. Tugs her sleeves down over her hands, yanks the collar up, slides the coat up over her head. She straightens up, flexes her butt muscles, presents her hips, maximizes how much her undershirt rides up to show off her abs. Her shirt rides high, and her pants ride low, and Fixer’s eyes go wide and dark as she watches Glory strip. “Like the goods?” Glory asks.

“Shit, yeah. Looks a lot nicer than mine.” Fixer runs one hand across her own stomach, presses her fingers at the healthy layer of fat across her midsection.

“Ohh, but you’re nice too.” Glory squeezes Fixer’s thighs, digs her fingernails in until Fixer’s hips lift a little, then she drops to her stomach. The tile is cold against her belly and chest, even through her undershirt--and bra--and her shirt sticks to the floor the same as her pants. She rests her elbows just above Fixer’s knees--not the most comfortable position, her shoulder blades digging into each other, pectorals stretched weird, fingers on the join of Fixer’s thigh and torso--and presses a kiss to Fixer’s thigh, trails another three closer to her vulva. “WIth your big, soft thighs,” she sucks, then, digs her teeth in hard enough to have Fixer wriggling, doesn’t let up until she's sure she’s left a bruise blooming on her skin. “All that muscle just underneath.” she moves over to Fixer’s other thigh, sucks another bruise, keeps at it until Fixer makes a soft noise, brushes her fingers over the ends of Glory’s hair, something like a request. Glory lets that bruise rest--sits back to survey her handiwork, leaves Fixer’s hands empty and grasping, her fingernails scratching across the skin as the junction of her thigh, not touching herself, but almost. She raises one hand, makes grabbing motions at Glory without moving.

“Please,” she rasps out. “Please.”

“Beggar,” Glory teases, walks forward on her knees and leans over to kiss Fixer. Fixer leans up into the kiss, curls her hands over Glory’s shoulders before dropping her elbows, curling her arms around Glory’s back. She tugs Glory close, sighs as Glory leans the jut of her hip into the inside of her thigh.

Glory worries at Fixer’s lip for a moment, before she pulls away and tucks her head down, runs her lips down one side of Fixer’s neck, then up the other. Lingers on the scar there, tongues at it before she tests her teeth against it. Fixer tips her head side to side, Glory follows with her mouth.

Glory trails her hand down Fixer’s body, stops to roll one of Fixer’s nipples between her fingers, drags her fingernails down her stomach just hard enough to leave little trails of white. She pinches the skin at the joint of Fixer’s thigh and torso between her fingernails, waits for Fixer to jump and yelp before she continues lower to thrust two fingers into her. Fixer gasps, squirms, claws at Glory’s back, though her fingers drag right off Glory’s undershirt. Glory sucks a hickey on fixer’s collarbone, on the knob at her throat, thrusts a little harder with her fingers. 

Fixer pulls Glory's shirt up again, above her breasts. She doesn’t touch her breasts--there’s no comfortable way to do so, on her back with Glory over her--but she digs her fingers into Glory’s back muscles. glory laughs, deep and throaty, as Fixer’s fingernails dig enough to sting.

“I’ll give you something to claw about,” she murmurs, moves to the other side of Fixer’s neck and starts in on another hickey. She pauses in her thrusts, thumbs at Fixer’s clit for a moment as she withdraws her fingers, works at FIxer’s neck until Fixer is whimpering and clawing and gasping in between it all, her legs jumping, trying to box Glory in, get more.

“You beg so pretty,” Glory breathes against Fixer’s neck, slides her fingers in again, long and slow. “Should see yourself, with those big ol’ hickeys.”

“Not gonna be able to walk to check a mirror. You’re gonna have to carry me back to HQ. Suit up and haul me and my tin can in.”

“You couldn't get me in that thing to save my life,” Glory snorts, brushes her teeth along Fixer’s neck, then over one bruise, then the other. Withdraws her fingers long and slow “Don’t need it to mow a deathclaw down from thirty yards away.”

“Never know when it might come in handy.”

“I’ll pass,” Glory laughs. She kisses her way down Fixer’s chest, makes Fixer’s hands and clawing slide up onto her shoulder blades, drags her shirt higher, into her armpits. She thrusts her fingers in again, sets her teeth at one of Fixer’s nipples. Doesn’t _bite_ , not really, but worries at it so Fixer writhes underneath her. Fixer is close, she thinks, though they've never done this before. One of her hands goes from Glory’s shoulder up into her hair, fists a chunk of it and uses it to hold on, pulls slightly though that seems mostly incidental.

Fixer kicks behind her, and Glory slows down, turns as best she can to check.

“Pants,” Fixer says, tugs Glory’s head back around. “Trying to, uh--” she wrinkles her nose, tries to buck her hips to get Glory moving again since she stopped. “Boots?” she finally manages.

Glory laughs at the question.

“Thought you didn't want your bare feet in the grime?”

“Fuck what I said then,” Fixer replies, lets it rise into a gasp as Glory starts in again, switches to her other nipple. “Fiuck past me.”

“Already did that,” Glory replies. “Wouldn’t mind fucking future you, either.”

“Same,” Fixer grunts, digs her fingers into Glory's scalp and her shoulder, tightens her legs over Glory’s hips, grunts. Glory gets her thumb on Fixer’s clit again, pulses hard and fast until Fixer’s pulling her down, gasping half-words into her scalp, hips twisting up against Glory’s.

She goes soft and slack, after she comes, and Glory peppers soft kisses against her chin and jaw and the bend of her throat.

“Fuck,” Fixer murmurs. Glory laughs. “Can we do that again? soon? and on a real bed?”

“We’ll see,” Glory replies, sits back on her heels. Fixer drags herself up to sit, glances down at her shirt--now with a wet spot--and grimaces.

“I guess tomorrow’s gonna be laundry day?”

Glory laughs, stands up so she can step out from between Fixer’s legs. Fixer inches her pants up--she’d almost gotten them off, over one boot, which is funny as hell to watch her struggle with--and then stands to button and zip them. She flinches after a moment.

“Oh, god, the walk home is going to be interesting.” She bends over to pick up her shirt, does an awkward splay-legged half-squat so her thighs don’t rub. She folds it up into a rectangle, shoves one end into the back of her waistband so it hangs. She pulls on her overshirt, and buttons it up to her throat as Glory watches, hands on her hips and eyes wandering. “God, where do I have another shirt stashed, between here and Sanctuary?”

“I don’t know,” Glory replies, grins at Fixer as she stumps past and runs a hand back through her hair, musses it back into shape. Fixer’s walking with a weird bowleg gait, and probably will for the rest of the day.

Makes her ass look good, though.

Glory pulls her coat back on as Fixer steps up into her armor and it wheezes closed.

Fixer passes over Glory’s minigun--one-handed, which makes Glory wonder if Fixer would ever consider taking that weird bug-helmet off, put all that extra strength to good use, along with her mouth; how would that even work, sit on Fixer’s hands, hook her legs over that weird hump-armor, hold onto Fixer’s hair? she’ll have to think about it. Fixer lifts her baseball bat--and that still seems suicidally stupid, to Glory, even in the power armor. It works, though--shit, how many hostiles did she take out? fifteen? twenty? they kept a count but she can’t remember now.

The armor whirrs as Fixer adjusts her stance, rubs her fingers across the outside of her thigh.

“Meet you back at HQ tonight?”

“Yeah,” Glory agrees. She should make a detour on her way back, rub one out. Tell Fixer about it later, see just how desperate she can get.

That’s later, though. For now, it’s back out onto the streets.


End file.
